


Press [Start] to Begin

by mothmangrub



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Domestic, Fluff, Human Connor (Detroit: Become Human), M/M, References to Depression, Slice of Life, nerd conventions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-10-06 20:10:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17351810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mothmangrub/pseuds/mothmangrub
Summary: Twitch Streamers AU.Connor is a newly professional gamer gremlin and Hank is his confused but supportive sugar da--I mean, boyfriend.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The chapters for this one will be be bite-sized but hopefully frequent since I have most of this thing written already. (It was supposed to be a oneshot. It disagreed.)
> 
> My apologies to the universe for being so obviously inspired by the Decharts, may their innocence remain untainted by the sullied talons of fandom.
> 
> Anyway *rubs my sullied fandom talons on this fic*

**theandroid** : [ Live Now ]

The stream begins with an awkward closeup of a middle-aged man in reading glasses squinting into the camera. Or some approximation of that. He really is quite close.

“Oh shit,” he says, fittingly.

He falls back into the sofa behind him, scratching his beard, his mouth hanging open just enough for his front teeth to perch on his lip. His graying hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, and his sweatshirt hugs his belly a little tightly, like it’s raring to abandon ship any minute.

“Hey Connor?”

“Yeah?” comes a voice from offscreen.

“I think it’s on.”

Something clatters somewhere. A very pointed clang-ang-ang-thump.

The man leans forward again to try and fiddle with the equipment, his thumb briefly covering the lens, and at the same time another fellow appears, ducking to get his head into frame. He’s younger, perhaps in his 30s, with dark hair flopped in a curly mess across his forehead. But it’s the sort of mess that looks like it ought to be that way.

“No no. Not like that.”

“Don’t _no no_ me, what even is this.”

“ _Hank_.”

They scuffle over the camera for a moment.

It’s a moment too long. Some viewers have already left by the time the two of them come to an unspoken impasse and settle back into the sofa side by side. The older one smiles wincingly and the younger one presses his lips together in a way that might be a smile or might just be a sort of vaguely amicable resting face. The younger one is wearing a black t-shirt with what appears to be an eyeball crab monster on it and the words Sepultura Arise in red font. There’s a freckle visible on his upper arm just under the sleeve.

“Hello,” he says, with almost unnervingly direct eye contact. “My name is Connor. I’m theandroid.”

The older one clears his throat a little. “And I’m, uh.”

“You’re Hank,” says Connor.

“I’m Hank.”

“My roommate.”

“Yes. That.”

Connor pauses, sitting very straight and at the ready, hands on his knees, almost like he’s waiting for instructions. Did he forget he’s the one who’s supposed to be talking right now?

Hank removes his glasses and gestures with them coaxingly.

“Connor’s really good at video games. Aren’t you, Connor?”

“... You could say that. I’ve held the speedrun record for Yoshi’s Island for two years and I’m also ranked with Ocarina of Time.”

“And?” Hank leans out of frame to put his glasses somewhere. The little nub of his ponytail dangles down the back of his neck. He’s got an unusually big head and thick neck.

“I was a member of Jericho, the winning team in last year’s League of Legends World Championship in Seoul,” Connor says. “I enjoy Nintendo more, but I do play some PC games. Seoul is the capital of South Korea, in case you didn’t know. I liked seeing the Changdeokgung palace while I was there. It was built during the Joseon Dynasty.”

“Jesus, Connor, you’re not giving a powerpoint presentation.”

Connor shoots him a frown. “You’ll need your glasses to read the comments, Hank.”

“Don’t the comments come after the video?”

“It’s a live chat.”

With a very beleaguered sigh Hank leans over, again, to get his reading glasses, again.

There are three users in the chat currently. Hank reads off their names and Connor greets them each politely and oddly genuinely as he sets up his game. He explains that he’s training for a speedrun of Super Mario 64. He’s trying to complete the game in as little time as possible, in other words. He enjoys Nintendo, he says again.

“My friend Markus suggested that I should see if I could further monetize my interests,” Connor explains as his game screen appears in the bottom corner. He actually sits and lets the opening title play for awhile, smiling vaguely at the music. “Markus was the captain of Jericho.”

“Some guy named deathmaggot667 wants to know how a schmuck like you got into Jericho,” Hank reads.

“They could be a girl.”

“Some girl named deathmaggot667 wants to know how a schmuck like you got into Jericho.”

“I didn’t train with the original team. Markus recruited me online. I just… have a knack for video games.”

“Hey, fuck you too, miku_miku,” says Hank.

“What?”

“miku_miku asks why you’re roommates with an old man.”

Connor finally presses start, staring intently at his game. “I wonder that sometimes too.”

“Hey.”

He starts playing and suddenly the snark ends and his three viewers become very interested.

He does have ‘a knack’ for video games.

In fact he’s horrifyingly good.

He never runs Mario around like normal. Instead he cuts every corner he can with perfectly timed jumps and kicks off of walls and scenery, even backflips just to switch the camera angle faster when turning around. He treats enemies more like stepping stones to help him jump higher than like threats. It’s a completely different way to play the game, a complicated gymnastics of crossing space as quickly as physically possible in the game’s coding.

He’s halfway through the whole thing in under an hour. “I’m rusty,” he says.

By then, his viewership has increased in swarms. Somebody must have yelled about him on Twitter.

At lulls in the action, Connor explains that his channel will have weekly Mario 64 training sessions hopefully leading up to a record breaking speedrun, but he’s also happy to share the rest of his Nintendo collection in a more lax way. He’s good at most games. He says something about “hyperfixation” that quickly gets drowned out by updates from the chat and Hank trying to keep up with reading the highlights.

“He’s basically a robot,” Hank says, in response to the most recent flood of hyped up emotes.

“Hence the username,” Connor murmurs. He catapults Mario over a cliff to land somewhere entirely different but also exactly where he needs to be. He never looks away from the game once it’s started.

He gains 132 subscribers on the first day.

 

 **theandroid:** [ Offline ]

With Connor’s first stream successfully concluded, Hank needed a drink.

They shut off their equipment but left the setup stacked haphazardly in the middle of the living room because why not. They could walk around it.

What the camera hadn’t seen was that their shared apartment was rather lackluster, the cheapness combined with their clashing tastes in knicknacks definitely off-putting. For example, the shelves bordering their tv were either: empty except for one egg timer, stacked with broken records about to fall out, or sporting a collection of fastidiously aligned blown glass fish. The living room carpet was orange because somehow they’d actually consented to that.

The internet didn’t need to know this about them.

Hank stood and stretched his back with an irrepressible old man noise.

“You did good, Connor,” he said.

Connor was perched on the coffee table now, looking tired out from the socializing but pleased. He gave Hank a dose of warm brown eyes.

It had been awhile since Hank had really watched Connor play these things. It was hard to picture now, but back in the day they’d waste hours of Connor just grinding aimlessly at the same games over and over, Hank on the sofa behind him, not really talking to each other because they were both too sharp and fragile at the time. But still they always kept each other company, each standing guard over the other’s unhappiness. There were nights where, in retrospect, Connor probably could have gone to sleep but Hank suspected he stayed up with him anyway because he was afraid of what Hank might do if left alone.

The internet didn’t need to know that either. They were both kinda fucked in the head.

But also doing better. That was the unbelievable part.

Here Connor was getting into this weird internet thing that might actually be the perfect job for his weird little self, if it worked out. Something that might make him for real happy, in addition to getting him his own income for once.

And they were still together for the better shit. What the hell.

Hank couldn’t help but wait for it to fuck up somehow, but undeniably right at this moment it was pretty unfucked.

Some bits of hair were hanging in front of Connor’s face. With one finger, Hank moved them aside, and then kissed the patch of forehead he’d revealed. Connor rubbed up Hank’s arm idly, pulling a bit at the sleeve of his sweatshirt.

Then Hank went to get a beer. That was all it had to be, really.


	2. Chapter 2

**thandroid:** [ Live Now ]

“Hello. My name is Connor. I’m theandroid.”

For his second Mario 64 training stream, Connor wears an unflattering beanie, almost like he's hiding the fact he forgot to wash his hair. Hank lounges by his side again, and his own hair is free today, hanging messily around his face. They've gotta work on their presentation.

“Hank, introduce yourself,” Connor says, already zipping through his first few Mario levels as the viewer count steadily increases.

“Hi. I’m Angelina Jolie.”

“Thanks, Hank.”

Hank is kind of a grump, it seems.

In his defense, the chat is being obnoxious, and he's the one who's there to read it.

Some excerpts:

 

_android ur hot!!_

_is yoshi in this game?_

_Who's here from Jack's stream?_

_bored_

_u did better last time bro_

_yoshi??_

_hank tell android he's hot_

_Is android single?_

_(Five Yoshi emotes)_

_wtf why r u slower than last time_

_hes not doinf bad tho_

_IS YOSHI IN THIS GAME_

 

Such is the chasm of the internet.

“I need you to read the chat, remember,” Connor tells Hank, maybe a little snippily, as he somersaults his way up a mountain.

Hank's eyes behind his reading glasses have been trained on the chat the whole time.

“They say you're doing good,” Hank fucking lies. It's kind of sweet.

 

_BOO Hank_

_Is he single?_

_GIVE US THE DEETS HANK_

_(An entire wall of Yoshi emotes spams the chat)_

 

But Hank's tone was more ironic than actually convincing. Connor can obviously tell he's dealing with an audience of internet cretins and frowns a little, gives his head a tilt, jaw tight, intent on his game.

“Is Yoshi in this game?” Hank asks with a sneer.

"No, he is not,” Connor replies testily.

The Yoshi person straight-up leaves.

“Some people want to know if you have a girlfriend,” Hank reads.

“Why would they want to know that?” 

Hank raises his hands in a _don’t shoot the messenger_ way.

“I’m gay,” says Connor.

The chat goes ballistic. It’s scrolling super fast, everybody leaping in to comment. Some more viewers leave.

“I don’t think the internet etiquette is to just say that,” Hank mutters, his eyebrows far up his head as if blandly impressed by the evils of social media.

“Why not?”

“Dunno. Looks like you’ve made some gamer bros mad.”

Connor presses his lips together. This whole time he’s still just been playing his game, never looking away from it.

“No wait, yaoigirl69 says you look gay,” reads Hank. “I think she means it as a compliment, she’s sending you kissy faces.”

“What does that even mean.”

“Now everybody wants to know if your boyfriend is cute.”

Connor makes a grunt of a noise and tears his beanie off his head like it's the one to blame. His hair indeed looks a little greasy but not too bad on camera.

Maybe some viewers will realize he is not angry but rather… anxious. Expelling pent up energy. He is a quiet man not used to being a performer, after all. Over three hundred people are watching.

Maybe those same viewers will also notice the way Hank reaches over to brusquely squeeze Connor's shoulder up close to his neck. A wordless moment of support.

Then he ruffles Connor’s hair with a big ol’ hand, making a complete mess of it.

“What’s that for?” Connor demands irritably, squinting through his own crazy curls at the game. 

“For good luck,” Hank says.

The chat chills out eventually. It always does.

 

**theandroid:** [ Offline ]

Connor had been in the shower for forty minutes so Hank barely even knocked before barging into their puny bathroom. It was your typical tub shower with a transparent curtain (Connor got anxious if he couldn’t see a whole room--a matter of history), and when Hank pulled it open there Connor was, drenched and blinking at him in surprise.

“You fall asleep or what?” Hank asked.

“I was thinking how to cut my time on the penguin level,” Connor said. He had the good grace to give a little sheepish grin, just a flash of his front teeth. Fucker was using up all their hot water thinking about Mario.

“You done?”

“I still haven’t washed my hair.”

“Then move over, I gotta leave in like fifteen minutes.”

Connor obligingly stepped back against the far edge of the shower, as Hank set his actually-going-out clothes on the closed toilet lid and started shimmying out of his sweatpants.

“I’ve been keeping track of the common critiques from the chat,” Connor said conversationally. “They definitely lose interest quickly if I don’t continue cutting my time, and they also wish I would talk more. I’ve been thinking of conversation topics I might introduce.”

“Isn’t that a little clinical?”

“Well, I did have the idea to pre-write a script but I trashed that.” The corner of Connor’s mouth pinched wryly. A joke.

This was how Connor responded to problems. He just ran headfirst into them again with increased vigor. If anything, the rocky stream they’d had a few days ago had energized him, lit a fire under his ass in the form of his intense desire to please everybody. Hank still had a lot to learn from him in that regard. Getting back up after a fall wasn’t always Hank’s strongsuit.

But he’d have to keep an eye on Connor as well. Connor always worked hard, and that meant he very easily worked _too_ hard.

“If you want my advice, which you don’t but I’m giving it anyway--” Hank said, flinging his shirt across the room. “There’s definitely a subset of your fanbase whose opinions aren’t worth shit. There’s improvements you can make, sure, but don’t go improving for those guys in particular.”

“Got it,” said Connor.

Now naked, Hank stepped up into the shower, bowing his head a little under the curtain rod. It was cramped but nothing they hadn’t managed before. The simple daily wizardry of making it work.

His gut hung out with absolutely no pretense, sporting a jagged scar near his belly button which might have been from an appendectomy if you didn’t know him better. The black wings of a tattoo were sprawled across his chest but half obscured by hair, like weeds overgrowing a sidewalk. He also had a tattoo on his left thigh, looping up coyly into dick territory--he’d gotten it back when he had a naive overconfidence in the shelf life of his sex appeal.

Connor liked it plenty though, judging by the not-so-subtle scan he gave him as Hank bent to get his hair wet. Little perv.

“I do want to get better sound equipment too,” Connor said. “In the future. I would like to save up with my own money made from subscriptions and side projects with Jericho.”

Hank gave him a sideways look over his shoulder as he squirted shampoo into his palm.

“I can help you with the money, Connor…”

“I know. But I’d like to start paying for myself. It would mean something to me.”

Hank didn’t even try to hide the suspicion on his face. It was indeed meaningful that Connor was managing some independence now but, well… Connor was also too hard on himself almost always. Again, Hank would have to keep an eye on him.

_Of all the people out there to please, you should know you have nothing to prove to_ **_me_** _, you walnut._

“Alright,” he said simply. “Keep me posted.”

After lathering up, Hank turned bumpingly to pass the shampoo over to Connor, who accepted it but didn’t start washing his own hair. Still in thinking mode, it seemed. He’d never actually _shower_ at this rate.

“What game should we play for our first ‘chill stream’?” Connor asked.

“Are you actually capable of ‘chill’ enough for a ‘chill stream’?” Hank grinned.

“I’ll have you know, I’m a very relaxed guy.”

“What’s your favorite?”

“What do you mean?”

“Jesus, Connor, just be yourself, alright? Show them your favorite game. You never shut up about your favorite games.”

He stayed facing Connor as he washed his face, the spicy smell of their shared soap piquing between them in the shower steam. Connor just sort of stared at him in this vaguely lost way but then finally started to wash his hair. Good.

Connor had a smattering of hair on his chest as well, but in a light uneven way, mostly concentrated in one line down his stomach. He was getting some meat on his bones these days, for the first time in ages. He was still skinny, but not nearly to the drowned-cat extent he was when Hank first met him.

It made something twinge behind Hank’s eyes, seeing Connor getting healthier.

“You want some more unsolicited advice?” Hank asked.

“Well, if it’s unsolicited, then--”

“You’re doing fine. It’ll get easier, and good shit’s gonna start happening.”

Connor smiled, and passed over the shampoo bottle for Hank to return to their caddy.

“Same to you,” Connor said, with a pointed look. He knew exactly where Hank was going after this shower. “Good shit’s gonna start happening.”

“It's just a little gallery thing, not a big deal,” Hank mumbled. It had been awhile since he’d worked with a gallery. He was more geared toward commercial shit, but the opportunity to showcase some of his art again had just sorta fallen into his lap.

He was so much older than Connor, so much tireder. Connor might not fully understand yet that he had a lot of opportunities in his future, that he was going to get out there and do great things with his youth now that the worst was behind him. But Hank was _old_ and rather burned out on opportunities. He’d done that to himself. His “good shit” line perhaps wasn’t as mutual as Connor believed.

But Connor was looking at him with such quiet confidence. He shuffled forward a little and placed his hands over Hank's chest, fingers curling lightly in the hair.

With the water half in his face he leaned over to give Hank a closed-eye sputtery sorta water kiss. When he pulled back, he had wet hair plastered to his forehead and droplets of water clinging to his eyelashes handsomely. He sorta ptew-ed some water off his lips. An unorthodox kiss, to be sure. But he gave Hank a crooked little smile and then slap-slapped Hank's chest with both palms. The smacks resounded in their tiny bathroom's phenomenal acoustics.

“For good luck,” Connor said.

Ugh. If Connor was gonna be like that, it hardly mattered whether the luck came or not.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tuesday again?? No problem.

**theandroid:** [ Live Now ]

“bearbigboss wants to know how we met,” Hank reads midway through their second stream of Star Fox. They’re reaching month two of having theandroid in business.

It’s not a speedrun--it’s one of their “chill streams,” which usually aren’t entirely chill because Connor seems to be insanely good at most games, but the vibe at least is comfortable.

“Hank and I met through the heavy metal scene,” Connor says. His knees are flung open amusingly wide, as he hunches low with his controller. “I would like to say he bought me a drink but it was just a bottled water. You sweat out a lot of fluid at metal concerts, so it was appreciated nonetheless. I was tired, he seemed to notice, and we just wound up talking for a long time. We became friends.”

Hank is kinda side-eyeing Connor, like he’s bracing for more questionable details of this story, but they don’t come so he relaxes. “You wouldn’t think it looking at us but we’re big into loud shit,” he says.

“Oh yeah, we go to a lot of concerts together.”

“The age difference isn’t as weird in that scene because metalheads are all basically weird anyway.”

“It’s not that weird, us hanging out,” Connor protests. The chat disagrees passionately and Hank sneers at them. They always ask Connor the same question: _Why are you roommates with an old man_? But Hank’s started to just ignore that topic, as is the power of the comment wrangler. “I’m a thirty something and you’re a… forty something.”

“That’s generous of you, Connor, but your audience aren’t idiots.”

“You don’t look a day over 53, friend.”

Their typical sofa scene suddenly shakes a little and the back of a very large dog crosses in front of them. “Getouttahere!” Hank gripes, as a Saint Bernard tries to will itself into being a lap dog on his knee. “No. Down. Come on, Sumo, get lost…”

He one-handedly pats the dog away and the chat spits out some celebratory dog emotes.

“Bye, Sumo,” says Connor. In the game subscreen, he’s currently trying to rescue a frog space pilot. As you do.

Hank returns to the chat and snorts. “Everybody’s listing their top metal bands now. Good crowd. Except for you, megapixel5. You know why.”

“Why do you love antagonizing them so much?”

“You told me to read the chat, I’m reading the chat.”

Hank’s relationship with the chat has definitely developed into one of cheerful mutual antagonism, but that’s part of the channel’s charm. He’s had a bottle of beer in his hand for the whole stream but actually drinking it is hard when he’s trying to keep up with Connor’s rapidly growing fanbase. Sometimes Connor’s eyes flit down and he has to read patches of the chat himself. Despite the usual hitches, the little channel has been booming the past two months, perhaps faster than they were prepared for.

“Somebody asked what _you_ do for a living, Hank,” Connor reads before his eyes are right back at his game again. “Want to answer that one?”

“Not really.”

“Aw. Come on.”

“Why are they asking about me? They’re here to watch you play. I’m just your lovely assistant.”

“Hank is an animator.”

“Animators actually animate things. I went to animation school, there’s a difference.”

“Hank is a freelance artist.”

“Maybe.”

“That’s literally what you do.”

“I make enough to get by, anyway.”

He finally glugs some beer as if in recompense.

“Well, what you do make, you have a habit of helping other people with it,” Connor says, in a blatantly weighted way he doesn’t elaborate on.

Four or five users type some encouragement. Some fans are actually starting to like the duo as people, in the sweet well-meaning way of fandoms. Their earnestness makes up for the trolls. Hank stubbornly doesn’t read his compliments aloud but he does chuckle a little, showing teeth, and shakes his shaggy head.

Maybe his eyes go a little soft too. It’s hard to tell. His eyes are kinda weird-shaped, like a basset hound’s.

In thanks, Hank actually deigns to read out some of the chat questions.

“Why are these people always calling me theess?” he asks, squinting through his glasses.

“What?”

“T-H-I-C-C. Theess. Hank is theess.”

“I… don’t know.”

“Oh shit. They’re really mad neither of us know what that means.”

“Well are they going to tell us?”

“Holy shit.”

“Hank.”

“I’m trying. The chat just exploded. The comments are going too fast, I can’t even read em.”

“I guess we’ll never know.”

“Haha they _hate_ that.”

These chill hangout streams always have a much smaller turnout than the speedrun training. The people who come to these ones mostly just like watching Connor and Hank fuss at each other.

 

**theandroid:** [ Offline ]

“Looks like you’re actually making money with this,” Hank said appreciatively, thumbing the touchscreen of his laptop.

“Maybe I can finally pay you back one of these days.”

“Don’t be an idiot, Connor.”

Connor had bought Sumo a new rope toy and was introducing it to him on the living room floor, not too far from where their streaming equipment was just perpetually set up nowadays. Sumo had the toy lazily chomped in his big ol jaws and was letting Connor pull it with his whole weight. It was like Sumo was dutifully making sure his pet Connor got enrichment rather than the other way around.

It was an off day with their streams so Hank, for his part, was shirtless in boxers at the kitchen table, still with the stupid glasses. Definitely an aesthetic he hadn't wanted to embrace this early in life and yet here he was. At least his tattoo hadn’t sagged yet.

Connor gave a little huff, genuinely putting in effort against Sumo’s tug-o-war prowess.

“Get 'im, Sumo,” said Hank absently. “Demolish him.”

Sumo boofed out the sides of his closed mouth. More of a dual flapping than a proper boof.

Hank had realized three hours ago that today was Amanda’s birthday. He’d almost completely missed it because Connor hadn’t had his annual panic attack over it. If Connor hadn’t noticed, Hank wasn’t about to bring it up. He’d just wait for when Connor needed him but honestly it looked like he wouldn’t this time and that was a little mind-blowing, in a good way.

Hank had also been realizing lately, slowly but inexorably, that Connor was creeping toward more independence than he’d ever had in his life.

Connor rolled onto his side on the floor, trying to leverage the rope over his shoulder in a thoroughly dorky way. His t-shirt hiked up his chest and Hank maybe enjoyed the trail of hair on his belly disappearing into his sweatpants. God, what an idiot.

It maybe hurt a little that Hank had never been able to make Connor this sort of happy himself. A stupid feeling--Connor couldn’t fix all of Hank’s shit single-handedly either. But honestly, with Connor trekking off on his own, it did bring into question what he’d need Hank for anymore. Or whether he’d need Hank at all.

They’d already agreed to refer to each other as just “roommates,” after all.

That was their default in most scenarios, to avoid side eyes about the age difference. It was tenable back when they were both being such loners but now with Connor really putting himself out there and even Hank rebuilding his own social circle… It was more up in the air.

How would your budding social media account take it if your fans found out you were into older men?

Healthiness was new territory for both of them as people, and honestly Hank didn’t know if maybe Connor would be better off taking flight and leaving him behind in the end. Take advantage of all those years he was ahead of Hank, in terms of dealing with shit in a timely manner for a good life. He’d want that, if that was what would make Connor’s life the best it could be. He just wanted Connor to have everything.

But also Connor was currently getting pawed at by his dog, like Sumo was growing concerned for his idiot human, and Hank realized with no little horror that he actually had no idea how to live without Connor around anymore.

“Hey,” Hank said abruptly. “Let’s go out for dinner tonight.”

“Out?” Connor asked, looking up sideways from the floor. His hair was all over the place but his eyes knew something was up.

Hank’s heart had booked a motel at his adam’s apple for the night.

“Yeah. Out. What was that taco place Chris recommended us?”

“I don’t remember the name but I remember the directions.”

“You good with that, then?”

It’s not like they’d never fuckin eaten places before but Connor knew Hank well enough by now that he’d probably developed antennae for Hank’s lonely horny old bastard energy. Like picking up radio signals.

“I’d like that,” Connor said almost consolingly.

Hank was so glad, it was almost kind of miserable.


	4. Chapter 4

**theandroid:** [ Live Now ]

On the exact two month anniversary of his channel, to beckon in month three, theandroid invites a special guest. Instead of Hank, he’s joined by a tall, handsome young man in perhaps more bohemian attire than the typical gamer fare. He wears a long, gray coat that he refuses to take off and a wine red scarf bunched under his chin. It’s in stark contrast to Connor’s Astro Boy t-shirt, but Connor just sits there with his usual vaguely friendly expression, so very earnest that you can’t even be embarrassed for him, really.

“This is Markus, everyone. The captain of Jericho. He goes by i4eye competitively and on Twitter.”

“Hey guys,” says Markus, with a winning smile and a wave. Oh no. He’s both handsome _and_ down-to-earth. How deadly.

Connor has invited Markus to play Mario 64 and talk about their gaming experiences.

It’s a delight to watch an esports professional, who only really knows PC games and Playstation, absolutely fail at Mario. Markus is _bad_.

“No. The Z button,” Connor says, his forearms perched on his knees as he leans forward intently to watch the screen. He’s got a meek grin on his face, as if sheepish on Markus’ behalf.

“Where on earth is the Z button, Connor?”

Connor immediately reaches out and readjusts Markus’ hands on the controller, like he’s been itching to do it the whole stream. Barely holding back from just taking the wheel and not sucking at this.

“It’s on the _back_? Outrageous,” says Markus. But Markus has none of Connor’s shyness, continuing to smile winningly.

It’s Connor’s job to read the comments this time but he’s doing pretty bad at it, too absorbed in his friend. Nonetheless their conversation is actually informative and entertaining. Connor basically interviews Markus by his own improvised script, coaxing out details about the secretive world of pro gaming.

“Jericho has been in action for about five years now,” Markus says, as he accidentally walks Mario straight into lava. Connor winces. The chat laments. Markus seems not to notice, or at least not to particularly care. What a chill guy. “We’ve changed players a lot in that time. I think North and I are the only ones left from the original team. Connor’s our newest. Our secret weapon.”

Mario yells balefully as he falls into lava again. Markus really isn’t having a great time with that lava.

“I’m not so sure about secret weapon,” Connor says fairly.

“Don’t be modest. This channel is about upselling yourself, right? But really, nobody expected anything from you since you were such an unknown in the PC sphere. You blew them all away."

“I couldn’t have won without you and the others also being incredible players,” Connor says, but his diligent humbleness is belied by how his shoulders kind of straighten back in a preening way. The chat takes note. Connor really likes compliments to his gameplay abilities.

 

_You’re doing great connor!_

_aw cute egg_

_android knows his stuff_

_egg_

 

But he doesn’t see those messages.

“We stole first place right out from under their noses, is what I mean,” Markus says.

“How’s that been treating you, as the captain? It was Jericho’s first win.”

“Oh man, sponsors have been falling out of our ears for next year. It’s a lot of pressure to suddenly be a lovable underdog winner, but we’ll keep ‘em coming, you know?”

“I intend to try.”

Mario yells again, which is a lot less badass than the conversation.

“Markus, you’re running low on Health,” Connor chastises gently.

“Sorry. This is hard stuff you do! I’m not used to talking and playing at the same time. You’re liking the streaming thing?”

Connor seems to genuinely think on the question. “Yes,” he says finally. “I think I like it a lot.”

“You think,” Markus teases, but in the good nature of a friend. “Well, at the very least, you’ll be at GameCon, yes?”

“Oh, right. Everyone. Markus and I and the rest of the Jericho crew will be together at GameCon. We’d be happy to meet you there.”

“Yes, that’s the spirit! Upsell! See if they have any questions about where you’ll be at the convention center.”

Connor finally looks at the chat and makes a choked noise halfway between alarm and laughter.

“You can’t respond like that and not read it,” says Markus. “What is it?”

“Oh no… it’s uh.”

“Are they making fun of me?” Even Markus’ good humored self-deprecation is handsome.

“They’re saying we should date.”

Markus grins, his laugh a puff of air between his teeth. “Oh _I see_. They like teasing you, don’t they?”

“They really do.”

Connor sort of ducks his head shyly, and some of the girls in the chat take that opportunity to get persistent. The two men do have a nice chemistry.

It’s Connor’s only stream without Hank so far but it’s also his most popular, both for the celebrity gamer appeal and for… well. Fan interests.

 

**theandroid:** [ Offline ]

Hank could tell when the stream ended because Connor and Markus’ voices went quieter. They were both introverts, even if Markus was better at hiding it. The two friends chuckled softly in the other room, and Hank found himself not wanting to interrupt.

He just read a Raymond Chandler paperback in the bedroom. It was technically his bedroom. Maybe. As in, there was another bedroom in the apartment which used to be Connor’s, but Connor had been sleeping in here with Hank for ages now. He’d even stolen the side of the bed with the nightstand. Sneaky bastard.

Connor usually got up earlier than him, but every so often Hank would wake up to Connor glommed onto his back like a bony octopus, an arm slung around Hank’s middle. His arm wasn’t even long enough to reach all the way around Hank but lord did it try. How that was at all comfortable was a mystery.

“Hank, can you come here?” Connor called from the living room.

Hank dog-eared his page and rolled himself up with an oof. He made his way down the hall, lined in their framed movie posters, to the living room, where their streaming setup kept growing like a sort of mechanical Eldritch abomination. Markus had swung in late, and Hank had made himself quickly scarce so the special stream could commence, so he hadn’t had a chance to welcome Markus to… this sty they called an apartment.

Markus was looking dashing as ever, and Hank became a bit too aware of his own shabby jeans and fish print button down.

_Hello again, Markus. It’s true, I wear Hawaiian shirts in the fall._

“Good to see ya,” he said instead. Markus inclined his head in return.

Connor had pulled out the drawer of the coffee table and Hank realized that Markus was actually holding one of Hank’s sketchbooks. A number of Hank’s lesser used art supplies were just stuffed in that drawer for “safe keeping”, usually forgotten, especially now that the coffee table itself was enshrined in a maze of filming equipment.

“Markus wanted to see some of your art,” Connor said. “I thought one of your sketchbooks would be a good glimpse, but wanted to get your permission first, of course.”

Hank had to take a moment to mentally calculate if there was anything incriminating in there.

“Go for it. I think the worst you’ll find is nudes,” he said. There might be a few headless ones of Connor. And also Hank himself. He was an artist, for chrissake. Artists just have nudes around, that’s what they do.

The only real dangerous stuff in that book came from the long drunken nights when Hank would try to draw his son’s face from memory. A weird feverish test of integrity. But those sketches he always tore out and folded down down down, as small as he could, and deposited somewhere they couldn’t hurt him afterwards.

Markus opened the sketchbook reverently. Markus was the sort of person who would treat any of his friends’ work reverently, half from respect for his friend and half from respect for Art with a capital A.

“Connor said you had a gallery show recently?” Markus said, as he began turning very slowly through the pages, actually paying attention.

“Uh. Yeah. It was a flop.”

A pretty massive flop, actually. Oh well. Those happened.

Except at Hank’s age they happened with a consistent nagging voice at the back of his head saying he’d lost his chance at anything better by now.

“That’s a shame,” Markus said. “These are quite good.”

He turned the page and gave a sort of laugh, not from humor but just from finding joy in something. Hank had no idea people actually laughed for that reason alone. Markus was an odd kindness cryptid. He held the sketchbook up and turned it to Hank for reference.

Ah yeah. That page was covered in some of Hank’s science fiction work, the sprawling detailed wiring of a futuristic motorbike on a sloppily watercolored neon cityscape. It was just a warmup really, but it was an example of what Hank liked best. Nerdy illustrating was always the niche he came back to in the end. He wasn’t cut out for highbrow. That was part of why his gallery had failed--because it hadn’t reached the right niche somewhere between trashy robot movies and bougie art criticism.

Or, the voice in Hank’s head reminded him, maybe the gallery failed because he was just never going to be especially good at this. He’d accepted that a long time ago, to an extent. He wasn’t going to be some famous artist like his twenty-year-old self was so sure he would be. But now he was also running out of connections, so even just doing the work he cared about was getting harder.

Markus liked his shit, at least. He had the most delighted look on his face and he kept turning pages, completely not recognizing that one of those naked sexy androids was drawn out from a study of Connor. As ya do.

“This is incredible.” He held up another page, of a fleshy atomic sludge monster. “Akira, right?”

“Another sci-fi nerd, huh?” said Hank, with a crooked smile.

“Of course. I’m a video gamer, for chrissake.”

“I don’t think that’s what they call it.”

Nevertheless, Markus had a weird knack for seeming utterly cool even when revealing himself to be super lame.

Connor hung at Markus’ side, even perching an elbow casually on Markus’ shoulder to lean in and see the sketches as well. They’d gotten very close very quickly, these two. Connor was immensely thankful to Markus for guiding him out of his shell into this new world he already cherished so much.

Hank was the person Connor was quasi dating, but Markus was the person Connor would probably always have a puppy dog crush on.

Hank wasn’t jealous, per se. He knew Connor and Markus were just friends, and Connor didn’t have a bone in his body capable of cheating anyway. But admittedly he sometimes envied how much more Markus had to offer Connor than he did. Youth, opportunities, friends his age with his interests. So much Connor needed and was finally getting.

In other words: Markus was a force of great movement in Connor’s life, and maybe for Hank that made him untouchable.

“How long have you two lived together?” Markus asked, looking up, his fingertips hovering over the next page to turn. He asked so politely, but the unspoken question was obvious.

_So… What are you guys?_

“Um,” said Connor, and Hank noticed how he immediately pulled away from Markus’ shoulder. As if with shame--unconscious, no doubt, but it still stung to see. “Wow, I don’t know. It’s been ages. Right, Hank?”

“Uh, yeah, ages,” said Hank. “I don’t even remember how long at this point.”

“Sounds like a long history,” said Markus.

“Not really,” said Hank, absolutely ridiculously.

“Well, I mean, a long time temporally but…” Connor said, equally ridiculously. His eyes kept darting to Hank beseechingly, but Hank had no idea what he was trying to silently ask for. _Don’t mess up in front of my most important friend, please dear god?_ Something like that?

“Yeah, we’re uh…” Just roommates. “I’ve been helping Connor get on his feet.”

“Well, keep your head up, Connor, and you’ll have your own place in no time,” Markus said, clapping Connor on the back. Dammit. He was such a nice guy. He meant that so earnestly. It was the most well-meaning knife through Hank’s heart ever.

“It’s looking that way, innit,” Hank said numbly.

Empty apartment. Empty bed. Empty kitchen table.

Connor’s face was absolutely unreadable. “Yeah. It is.”

Markus, saint and art nerd that he was, actually looked through every finished page of the sketchbook before handing it back to Connor and taking his leave. It was one of those very long drawn-out exits, during which he probably talked to Connor for another hour just in the process of getting out the door.

“I’ll Skype you about convention details!” he said, his body finally halfway out the door, but dangerously still engaged in talking. “It was nice seeing you, Hank!”

And then he finally left Connor and Hank to mill about the suddenly silent room.

_Don’t make it awkward. For god’s sake, don’t make it awkward._

Hank cleared his throat. “Well, he’s sure nice.”

“Yep,” said Connor, much too quickly.

Silence.

“Anyway, I’ve got a date with Philip Marlowe…”

Hank turned and wandered stiffly back to the bedroom. His bedroom, but which Connor had taken over.

They'd kinda failed at that not awkward business. As he hefted himself back up into bed he suddenly realized _oh shit. Did I just turn this into a fight by leaving quickly? Are we fighting now?_

They didn't usually fight about important things. They'd vent steam but in stupid petty ways, Hank being mean and Connor giving an impressively frigid cold shoulder because “you said you'd do the dishes _yesterday_ ” or what the fuck ever, and then they'd get over it and apologize because at the end of the day it didn't actually matter.

This felt dangerously like it might matter.

And Hank, an idiot, wasn't even mad or something he'd just left because he didn't want to deal with it.

He glared down at his book without reading it.

He was 53 years old and acting like a stupid teenager. Although, he’d never felt particularly wiser with middle age, to be honest. It was like his brain stopped maturing at 25 and ever since he’d just walked around getting progressively fatter and sorer but feeling like the exact same person as ever. If he hadn’t learned how to be a functional human by now he was never going to.

Whoops. That was meant as a self deprecating joke but it was actually the exact problem wasn’t it?

Connor could still change and Hank could not.

Speak of the devil, Connor chose that exact moment to walk very purposefully into the bedroom. Before Hank could even look up properly to assess the Relationship Situation, Connor just plopped himself on the bed at Hank’s legs and sat there staring at him over the book.

“... What’s that face mean?” Hank asked, because he really had no idea. When Connor was feeling a lot of things at once he got this absolute deadface goin' on.

Connor sighed a little. Hank was holding the book in both hands, and Connor took hold of his wrists and just sorta lifted Hanks arms up and wiggled his way underneath to lay himself across Hank’s belly and perch his chin on his hands on Hank’s chest. Hank lowered the book enough to tap it on Connor’s head playfully. The bounce of his curls.

“Pretty hard to read like this,” Hank said.

Connor just watched him, smiling shyly, and took a long languid moment to let his eyes trace around Hank’s face, as if picking out all the little details and storing them in that detail obsessed brain of his.

“What’s Phillip Marlowe up to?” Connor asked.

Honestly, Hank was just glad they weren’t fighting. They weren’t, right? Or was this Connor’s version of an apology? Hank hadn't wanted an apology...

“Hard-boiled detective stuff,” said Hank, jokingly but also a tiny bit carefully. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

“I think that’s more spies than detectives.”

“Depends on the kind of detective, squirt.”

He placed the open book flat down on the top of Connor’s head because he was fascinated by that hair’s carrying capacity.

“Hank?”

“Yes, Marlowe?”

Connor squirmed on top of him, balancing the book impressively, but his smile had developed a dangerous glint that Hank recognized all too well.

“Theoretically speaking, would you be amenable to getting sucked off right now?”

“Now why would you want to do something like that?”

“Theoretical, remember. It doesn’t have to be realistically tenable.”

“I think I could live with getting sucked off. I hope you wouldn’t do it with a book on your head, though.”

Connor grinned and bowed his head, sending the book fluttering into Hank’s face. Well, he earned that. He’d definitely lost his place by now but it shouldn’t be too hard to find it again. And anyway, Connor was backing up like a stretching cat and already unbuttoning Hank’s jeans.

If Hank didn’t know better, he might even say Connor’s face was fiercely relieved in that moment. This wasn’t some sort of weird apology still, was it? What exactly weren’t they talking about here?

But Hank found he didn’t care at the moment because he also was relieved.

Everything was fine.

Fine.

Super fine.

He tossed the book in the direction of the nightstand, a little disappointed when it hit the edge but ultimately missed and clattered to the floor. But Connor had his cold fingers down his pants so more pressing matters were happening here.

“Christ, were you playing video games or just sticking your hands in ice cubes.”

“Markus was playing this time.”

Hank didn’t particularly want to talk about Markus during a blowjob actually, but Connor seemed done with talking anyway. He was casually pulling Hank's cock out of the fly of his boxers and gave it a chipper little kiss, much in the style of a 50s tv housewife greeting her husband home from work with a peck on the cheek. The sort of doting chastity that was just funny in reality, and Connor was perfectly ironic with it.

Hank's equipment, as it were, was in the short and fat category and Connor continued lavishing funny little kisses along the length, trailing to the base and sighing through his nose in a way that tickled the hair under Hank's belly.

But this was a quickie in spirit. Connor didn't waste much time before taking Hank in hand and stuffing his still soft cock in his mouth to messily work it up into interest. The wet heat of Connor's mouth was a nice contrast to his cold hands but there was still a vague element of discomfort, same as how Hank's jeans were biting into his knees as he tried to spread his legs helpfully, but here's the thing about blowjobs. When they're hot enough, you don't care about the imperfect, annoying details.

And Connor's were _always_ hot enough.

Once Hank had hardened fully, Connor simply held the head if his cock in his mouth for a moment, tongue swirling indulgently, his lips plump and stretched full and Hank gave a huff of appreciation low in his throat. Connor mmmed in response, letting Hank’s just pop out of his mouth and bounce at attention at Hank's stomach, and he gave a wet little laugh, like he hadn't meant to drop him.

“God, you’re gorgeous,” Hank murmured, and Connor glanced up at him through his hair with such warm dark eyes, Hank thought his heart would just about break but in a good way. In the sort of way he wanted it to break again and again and again. From squeezing too hard, maybe.

Speaking of.

Connor wrapped him up in a fist and got back to sucking eagerly, tongue flat against him, and it didn’t take long at all for that to be very effective indeed. Hank warned him as the pressure began to peak and Connor's mouth popped off again, stringing spit for a moment, but he continued jerking him off in earnest, plastering wet tonguey kisses at intervals until Hank was cumming in a sort of bubbling up eruption, dribbling down over Connor’s fingers. Connor gave him a few final kisses at the tip just for good measure, entirely unsqueamish, and then shot Hank this self-satisfied grin with his lips still slick and red and god, gorgeous didn’t even begin to cover it.

It's fine. Everything's fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Connor, an idiot: Are blowjobs the same as talking about our feelings?
> 
> Hank, also an idiot: Absolutely.


End file.
